Big Muddle
by Chapin CSI
Summary: Preslash. G&G walk a fine line between friendship & romance in a series of little scenes. Spoilers from season 5 and 6. New: Added a new scene to chapter.
1. Big Muddle

BIG MUDDLE

This story came to me today at 4 in the morning, (yeah, I have no life as you can see). Anyway, I usually agonize for entire months over a story or even a single chapter; this one I got ready in less than a day, (and it probably shows, lol).

Big Muddle: Gil and Greg come to a sudden realization.

Spoiler: The following scene from Big Middle:

Grissom is questioning the full-figured ladies that came to a convention.

_"…Gil wanders from group to group, asking if anyone recognizes Maurice. No dice. He then wanders over to a woman who's sitting in a chair, doing the above-the-waist dancing so many of us have done at our desks. She's got on a purple blouse. Gil does the "'Scuse me, do you know this guy?" Nope. Gil's staring at the blouse, and the lady grabs her cleavage and squeezes with, "You see something you like?" Gil apologizes and explains, "I noticed your lovely purple undergarment." (It turns out it's on sale at the hotel) Gil thanks her and moves on, but not before she gets a good swat on his behind. Gil turns around with a shocked look, and she flirtatiously smolders, "Fat girl, gay guy. It's not unheard of."_

(Taken from Television without Pity Recaps.)

* * *

Gil Grissom and Greg Sanders were walking to the parking lot, their inquiries over for the day.

They were discussing the information they'd gathered, and suddenly Gil remembered what the lady by the pool did. Normally, he would have kept the information to himself; this time however, he gave Greg a condensed version of the incident.

Greg's eyes widened.

"She did WHAT?" And he instinctively glanced at Grissom's butt, almost as if he expected to see the imprint of a hand there.

Grissom only shrugged. He didn't want to make a big deal of it.

Greg, on the other hand, was indignant.

"She touched you?"

"Not exactly. She only… Well -" he made a vague move with his hand.

Greg's eyes opened even wider.

"You mean she spanked you?"

"She didn't spank me," Gil glared, "It was just a swat."

"Wow," Greg said, trying to conjure the image in his mind and failing. He couldn't imagine a lady -or anyone else- wanting to swat Grissom. Intrigued, he looked sideways at his boss. Gil's face didn't tell him anything, so - hoping it would help clarify matters- he let Grissom take a couple of steps ahead so he could check on his butt.

What Greg saw took him by surprise.

_'Nice'_, Greg thought admiringly, wondering why he'd never noticed Grissom's butt before.

"So," he said, hurrying to catch up with Grissom. "Did she say anything?"

"She said -" Gil didn't finish. She'd said, 'fat girl/gay guy, it's not unheard of,' but Gil wasn't about to tell Greg _that_. Gil didn't think Greg had any prejudices, but there were things guys just didn't tell each other.

"She didn't say much," he said evasively.

They walked in silence for a moment.

"She must have thought you were gay," Greg said casually.

Gil looked up sharply but didn't say anything.

Greg nodded wisely.

"It seems gay guys are very receptive to chubby girls' advances," he said. "You can't blame them, Grissom," he said. "I mean, think about it; there _we_ were, two good-looking guys asking questions about garments made of silk -_purple_ silk, mind you -" He shrugged, "It was only natural that some of them would assume."

Gil looked at him with interest. Something in the young man's tone had caught his attention.

"Did they make a pass at you, too?"

"Kinda." Greg seemed evasive, then admitted, "The nice lady at Intimates."

"Regina?"

"That's the one."

"And you don't mind that she assumed -"

"It's ok," Greg said evasively. He reached the car and opened the passenger door but didn't immediately get inside. "It was kinda flattering," he admitted quietly.

Grissom's eyebrows rose in surprise. The gesture put Greg on the defensive.

"Hey, I've been going through a dry patch lately. It's kinda nice to know somebody notices you, even if it's a lady who's old enough to be your mother." He put his kit in the backseat, and then straightened up.

Gil looked up at the same time. He drew a sharp breath.

Sunlight delicately bathed Greg's face just then. The young man had a five O'clock shadow, and after a whole day at the convention he looked kind of… wilted. But there was certain vulnerability there too, something that Gil had never seen before.

Mesmerized, Gil wondered why he'd never noticed that Greg was, indeed, a good-looking guy.

He forced himself to look away.

----

Grissom drove, but his thoughts were still on the convention they were leaving, and the women they'd met.

Suddenly, he blurted out, "She said it wasn't unheard of for a gay guy to be with a fat lady."

Greg chuckled. "See?" he said, "I knew it."

Gil glanced at Greg. "Do gay guys really do that?"

"Hit on fat girls? Sure." Greg noticed Gil's surprise. "There are gay guys out there who are still trying to convince themselves they're straight," he explained, "They hit on chubby girls 'cause they tend to be very accommodating. I've _heard_," he added virtuously. He was silent for a moment, then mused, "Maybe they think a girl like that will be more tolerant of his shortcomings. And a gay guy will be more considerate than a straight guy, that's for sure. Back when I was in college, chubby girls used to have a hard time. They never got invited to parties, and if they went, they were ridiculed."

"They should have had their own parties, then," Gil said.

"They didn't want to party with other chubby girls and boys, Grissom. They wanted to be popular: they wanted to be with the cool guys."

"Well, they've come a long way, then," Gil said, "They're having their own conventions now."

"And they're not 'fat' anymore. Did you see the posters, inside? They're _'full-figured,_' now. '_Rubenesque'_.

"Rubenesque is beautiful," Gil agreed.

Greg was silent for a moment. "You know, straight guys can be downright cruel sometimes. Makes me wonder if our dead guy did or said something that might have made one of them angry enough to -" he didn't finish what he was about to say. He knew better than to theorize without a shred of evidence. "It's sad, isn't it?" he said suddenly. "About those women back there, I mean. They're pretty; they shouldn't be so desperate."

"You mean desperate enough to proposition us?"

Greg looked up sharply, but relaxed when he saw that Grissom was smiling. At the next red light, he glanced at Grissom.

"So," Greg said, "How was it like when you were in college? Were cool guys more tolerant or were they jerks too?"

Gil frowned over this.

"I don't know," he said, almost miffed at the sudden realization.

"How come?"

"I didn't hang out with the cool guys, Greg," he shrugged. "And I never went to their parties."

"You didn't? Why?"

Gil smiled self-consciously. "I never got invited." He glanced at Greg. "I was one of the chubby guys. Still am."

Greg met his gaze.

"Not chubby, Grissom. Rubenesque."

Gil chuckled.

* * *

TBC

I'm planning to add a few chapters based on slashy moments between Gil and Greg. There were lots on that season.


	2. Weird boys

Big Muddle

Part two

Pre slash, Gil & Greg.

I decided to add more chapters to 'Big Muddle", all dealing with Gil & Greg's growing awareness of their feelings for each other. I'll be using slashy scenes from season 5 and 6.

Spoiler for this chapter: A Greg/Mia scene from Swap Meet, (Swap Meet occurred before Big Middle, but for my story I'm changing the sequence. I also burrowed a scene from Precious Metals too, (the one where Greg and Gil discuss their personal hobbies).

-----------------------------------------------

Greg looked around. Dozens of clear bags covered the table. He reached out and, after a moment's hesitation, picked one and turned it over in his gloved hands. There was a metal object inside.

"Murder weapon," he said matter-of-factly, "Acme Skewer, Model 32-B."

He glanced at the man standing beside him.

Gil Grissom wrote something on a clipboard, and then nodded.

"Check," he said.

Greg dutifully put the skewer in the cardboard box open on the floor.

They were in the Evidence Room, doing an inventory of the items used in the Amy Keaton case, now officially closed. What they did was check each article against a list, pack everything together in a box, and then put said box in a storage room where it would remain, sealed and untouched, till the end of time, (or until someone appealed the case).

Not the most exciting of tasks, Greg thought, stifling a yawn. But as Grissom had told him a while ago, you didn't become a CSI for the glamour or the thrill; you became a CSI because -

"Next, please," Grissom said, putting an end to Greg's thoughts.

Greg picked another bag.

"Vibrator," he said in a monotonous voice. "Color: blue; model: X54L."

There were six vibrators in all, and as he read the labels he came to a sudden realization: He'd handled these so often in the past couple of weeks, they'd ceased to excite him. He'd even stopped making jokes about them -he, who'd always managed to see the sunny side of every aspect of life, had ceased to.

Maybe he was growing up.

Or maybe he was

Big Muddle

Part two

Pre slash, Gil & Greg.

I decided to add more chapters to 'Big Muddle", all dealing with Gil & Greg's growing awareness of their feelings for each other. I'll be using slashy scenes from season 5 and 6.

Spoiler for this chapter: A Greg/Mia scene from Swap Meet, (Swap Meet occurred before Big Middle, but for my story I'm changing the sequence. I also burrowed a scene from Precious Metals too, (the one where Greg and Gil discuss their personal hobbies).

Greg looked around. Dozens of clear bags covered the table. He reached out and, after a moment's hesitation, picked one and turned it over in his gloved hands. There was a metal object inside.

"Murder weapon," he said matter-of-factly, "Acme Skewer, Model 32-B."

He glanced at the man standing beside him.

Gil Grissom wrote something on a clipboard, and then nodded.

"Check," he said.

Greg dutifully put the skewer in the cardboard box open on the floor.

They were in the Evidence Room, doing an inventory of the items used in the Amy Keaton case, now officially closed. What they did was check each article against a list, pack everything together in a box, and then put said box in a storage room where it would remain, sealed and untouched, till the end of time, (or until someone appealed the case).

Not the most exciting of tasks, Greg thought, stifling a yawn. But as Grissom had told him a while ago, you didn't become a CSI for the glamour or the thrill; you became a CSI because -

"Next, please," Grissom said, putting an end to Greg's thoughts.

Greg picked another bag.

"Vibrator," he said in a monotonous voice. "Color: blue; model: X54L."

There were six vibrators in all, and as he read the labels he came to a sudden realization: He'd handled these so often in the past couple of weeks, they'd ceased to excite him. He'd even stopped making jokes about them -he, who'd always managed to see the sunny side of every aspect of life, had ceased to.

Maybe he was growing up.

Or maybe he was merely becoming a boring person.

He was musing on this when he picked the next item: a strand of anal beads. He visibly perked up. He stared at them for a moment, and then he glanced at Grissom.

A mischievous smile started tugging at a corner of his mouth.

He cleared his throat.

"Hey, Grissom?" he said casually, "Which anal beads would you rather use? The Jumbo XXL52 or the Petite S15?"

Grissom paused with pen in mid-air. He frowned. He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. He glanced at Greg, but the young man wasn't looking at him; he was looking at a string of beads. He was holding them against the light, examining them just as if there were some hidden clue he wanted to uncover. He was smiling, though –the mischievous, provoking smile that had become his trademark- which meant he'd definitely said what Gil thought he said.

Grissom hesitated. He was used to Greg asking all sorts of questions, both in seriousness and in jest, but lately it seemed that Greg's main objective was to shock him. It wasn't just the questions, but the way he posed them. Frankly, sometimes Gil had the impression that the young man was, well-

Flirting.

Of course, he could be wrong. Maybe this was Greg's normal behavior, and he'd never noticed it because their jobs had kept them separate, whereas now, with Greg training as a CSI, they were thrown together more often.

Maybe he just needed time to get used to it.

As for Greg's question, well, there was only one thing he could do: keep silent.

Greg glanced at Grissom and smiled. Oh, how he loved to make his boss squirm. True, Grissom recovered almost immediately, but there was always a brief moment of silence, a look of 'what the hell?' on his face...

"So, what do you think?" Greg asked, but he didn't press the matter. This was his boss, after all. Instead, he looked at the beads again. "You know, these bring back lots of memories."

"Do they," Gil said noncommittally.

"Oh, yeah," Greg said with growing enthusiasm, "Back when I was in college, we'd get these by the dozen. We used to hold these really wild parties in the fraternity basement -sometimes they lasted the whole weekend. And then -"

"Weren't you a virgin till you were twenty-two?"

The question was posed innocently enough, but the effect was devastating. Greg stopped in mid-word, eyes bulging. He gaped at Gil for what felt like an eternity before he could finally manage a word.

He was indignant.

"Sara told _you_ too?"

"She did not," Gil said soothingly, "I accidentally heard you and Mia talking, the other day."

That was hardly any comfort to Greg. He'd been caught in a lie -again- and that's all there was to it. More humiliating still, he'd been caught by Grissom.

Getting caught by Mia had stung, but this -this was a disaster.

Ignoring the burning heat in his ears, Greg looked down at the beads and, mustering all the dignity he could, picked the label and read.

"Strand of 6 beads in a nylon string," he said in a business-like tone, "Color: yellow, model: Jumbo XXL52."

Grissom picked his pencil and dutifully checked on his list.

They worked nonstop from then on. It wasn't until they were about to take their cardboard boxes down to the storage room, that Greg ventured another question.

"You think I'm weird?"

Gil paused by the door, and then turned around cautiously. Greg had asked him a similar question some time before, only back then he'd acted like being different was a source of pride, while now it seemed more like a stigma.

The young man wasn't even smiling this time.

"You think I'm weird," he said, and this time he wasn't asking.

Grissom's eyebrow moved only a fraction.

"Why would I think that?"

"Because -" Greg paused. He couldn't even say it out loud. Just holding Gil's gaze cost him enough.

Grissom studied him for a moment.

"Is this because you lost your virginity at twenty-two?"

"People think it's weird," Greg muttered sullenly, "You don't?"

Grissom smiled faintly, as if at some private thought.

"Well…" he said, "I didn't lose mine till I was _twenty-three_."

And with that, he left the room.

-------

The end (for now)


	3. Popcorn in a bag

Big Muddle

Part 3

Spoilers: Ch-ch-changes (Greg hears Grissom get an invitation from Mimosa the tranny); Spark of Life, (Greg's about to process the finger of a burn victim (Tara Matthews), when Grissom compassionately offers to take over)

* * *

Greg Sanders got into the car and reluctantly glanced at the man in the driver's seat. Gil Grissom was talking on the phone.

"I don't think it'll take me more than two hours," he said, "But if I'm late, will you please take over?"

Greg missed Catherine's response, but he doubted she'd be happy. The shift hadn't even started, and Grissom was already bailing out -and taking a member of the team with him. But Catherine's reaction was the least of Greg's concerns. Right now, he was worried –no, scratch that; he wasn't worried, he was _freaked out_- by the fact that Grissom had ordered him out of the lab just as he was about to review the Tara Matthews case.

Grissom had never done that before.

_'What did I do?'_ he wondered, as Grissom drove away from the lab. He didn't remember doing anything wrong lately, but sometimes it was hard to tell. As the newest CSI, he was still learning from his mistakes; but while most of the guys in the team were willing to steer him in the right direction, there were others, (lab technicians, most of them) who wouldn't help him in any way because, as one of them had recently told him, 'You learn more from the blunders you make, Sanders'.

Grissom finally pocketed his cell phone and glanced at Greg.

"Ok," he said expressionlessly, "let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see," Grissom said.

Greg, who had recently worked on some of the most tragic, bloody, and violent cases the lab had ever seen, sighed and prepared himself for the worst.

-----

Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next

Grissom turned the car into a huge parking lot set behind an amusement park. Over the high wall, Greg could see the Ferris wheels, the roller coaster and even what looked like a water slide. He couldn't see the name from here, but he knew it was just one of the many amusement parks dotting the desert the kind that look cheap and sleazy by day; beautiful and cheery by night.

Greg didn't particularly notice the park's beauty; he _froze_ at the sight.

"What are we doing here?"

Grissom, already unbuckling his seat belt, smirked.

"What do you think?" he said good-naturedly, "I haven't tried that roller coaster yet," he explained, "I thought maybe I'd try it tonight."

"Then why am _I_ here for?"

Greg's slightly belligerent tone made Grissom pause. He sat back again and looked at Greg.

"We need to talk, Greg."

_'Oh, shit'_ Greg thought.

"I thought it would be easier if we did it away from the lab," Grissom said. He paused for a few seconds, then added. "It's about some of the cases we've worked on recently, Greg. Look; I know how difficult it is to remain objective, especially when you're dealing with a live victim, like Tara Matthews -"

"You're saying that because I didn't take her fingerprints, right? Well, I would have, if you hadn't taken over."

"I know," Grissom said patiently. He was using his gentle tone, the one he used whenever he confronted an angry suspect, or a pissed-off coworker. "I know you're determined to do your job. But my point is, you've been pushing yourself too hard. Yesterday, I told you to take the night off, and you didn't. Then today, you were there earlier than everybody else -"

"So? I'm just trying to do my job. How can that be a problem?"

"It's not a problem, if you know how to balance your job with your personal life. If you're not careful, then the job will end up taking over every aspect of your life -"

Greg had the perfect retort to that, ('look who's talking!'); but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

But not for long.

"Fine," he said, cutting into Grissom's speech. "I get it. I should have taken the night off. Next time you offer, I'll take it. Ok?"

Grissom kept his gaze on Greg, as if gauging his sincerity. Then he nodded.

"Ok," He said, and then he opened his door, "Let's go, then."

Greg didn't move.

"I'm not going."

"Come on," Gil coaxed, "I promise that ride will take your mind off the job."

Greg snorted.

"Grissom, no offense, but I don't think riding a roller coaster is going to help, here. I'm not a kid, you know."

"I know you're not."

"Then don't treat me like one! I mean, a roller coaster –what do you think I am, ten?" Greg looked away, only to get a full view of the roller coaster in action; a half-dozen cars were running simultaneously, each one of them rushing to a different curve, so fast that for a moment it seemed they would shoot off into the sky, their passengers screaming in terror –

Greg quickly looked down. He took a deep breath.

"You know," he said, "Last night Sofia said that going home and hugging someone might help. But I've got nobody back home, so I decided to stay at the lab. But you know what?" he looked at Grissom. "I can just call someone." He looked at Grissom, "I mean, this is Vegas, right? You can buy anything –even someone to hug you." He opened the door as he spoke.

"Greg -"

"Don't worry," Greg said, climbing out. "I'll be back at the lab on time."

----

But Greg didn't return to the lab. Less than half-an-hour later, he was inside the park, looking for Grissom. The car was still in the parking lot, so Grissom was bound to be there, somewhere. Of course, a phone call would have made the search easier, but after the way he'd acted earlier, Greg didn't want to make things easier on himself.

As it turned out, he found Grissom relatively easy; just as if he'd known all along where he was.

Years later, Greg would say that's when he knew he and Grissom belonged together.

That night, he simply called it luck.

He found Grissom right next to the roller coaster. The CSI supervisor was sitting alone on a bench, a forgotten bag of popcorn in his hand, eyes glued on the rushing cars above. He smiled every time people screamed -a knowing smile that meant he knew what those people were going through. He was _reliving_ that ride.

Not wanting to break into Grissom's daydreaming, Greg only took a couple of tentative steps in his direction.

Grissom noticed him immediately. He didn't look surprised; he simply accepted the fact that Greg was there, and so he shifted in the seat to give Greg some space on the bench.

Greg sat and humbly waited for Grissom to begin. There was a reprimand in store for him, and he was willing to take it. Grissom glanced sideways at him.

"Want some?"

It took Greg a couple of seconds to realize Grissom was offering him some popcorn and with it, a reprieve. But Greg shook his head. He was there to do penance, not to eat popcorn –no matter how good it smelled. He was there to explain.

"I get sick," he blurted out.

"Oh." Grissom frowned. He cautiously withdrew the bag. "I thought you throve on junk food."

"I don't mean the popcorn. Those," Greg said, glancing at the roller coaster. "I can't ride them. I end up puking all over myself."

"Oh." Grissom frowned. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I didn't want you to know," Greg said reluctantly. "It's just too stupid. I mean, who gets sick in a roller coaster, right?"

"Plenty of people do," Grissom said reasonably. He looked at Greg, "I should have asked you before bringing you here."

"Well, you just wanted to get me out of the lab," Greg said magnanimously. "It worked." He glanced around, "You know, it's been a while since I came to a place like this as a civilian."

Grissom glanced around too, but his gaze kept turning back to the ride.

Greg glanced at Grissom. He couldn't believe the boss had left him off the hook so easily.

"I didn't get laid," Greg said suddenly. He unashamedly met Grissom's gaze. "I made a couple of phone calls, but... I knew it wouldn't work out. Me, I mean. Right now I feel like... Like I have an infectious disease, or something. Or like my skin smells like Tara Matthews'." His voice shook a little as he said her name. He frowned, "You ever feel like that?"

Grissom nodded noncommittally.

"It was a difficult case, Greg."

"See?" Greg said, "You're already talking about the case in the past tense. To me, it feels like it'll always be there."

"Greg, we don't forget the cases; we learn from them." He kept his gaze on Greg. "I'd be worried if you didn't give a shit about the victims, Greg." he said softly. "But there's only so much we can do for them. That's why we must remain objective at all times: so we do our job well."

Greg nodded. He knew all that. Putting it into practice was the hard part.

"Do cases ever get to you?" he asked. "I mean, I could use some pointers, here."

"Well… What you said about hugging someone makes sense," Grissom said thoughtfully, as if the idea hadn't really occurred to him before. "Having an outlet helps too; definitely. Anything that takes your mind off crime -"

"Like insects," Greg said good-naturedly.

"Insects," Grissom nodded. "Roller coasters -"

"Is that what you do, then? Come here and take a ride?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes I just look up at the sky. Problems seem to fade away whenever I look at the stars."

Greg looked up at the sky for a moment. It was hard to think of the stars above with so much glitter distracting him here on earth, but he did notice them this time.

He was still looking up when a rustling sound caught his attention. He looked around for the source and noticed that Grissom was eating popcorn again.

Wordlessly, Grissom offered him the bag.

Greg smiled and this time he did pick some popcorn and tossed it into his mouth. Immediately, he grimaced.

"Jeeze, Grissom; how can you eat popcorn without butter? It's like munching on a piece of Styrofoam!"

"They're ok," Gil shrugged.

Greg didn't seem very convinced but he reached for more popcorn anyway.

"So," he said after a moment, "Have you ever brought any of the guys here? Nick, for instance?"

Grissom smiled.

"Not Nick. But I did take Warrick to Lawrenceville Park a few years back. We rode 'Monster Hill'."

Greg felt a surge of envy.

"What about Catherine, or Sara?"

"I took both of them. They weren't too happy about it," he smiled at the memory.

"What about girls," Greg asked next, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Civilian girls, I mean. Ever brought one to a place like this?"

"You mean, on a date," Grissom said expressionlessly.

"Yeah. Let's say... Mimosa," Greg said, and he didn't understand why the name had suddenly popped up in his head. "Did you bring Mimosa, here?"

"I never went out with her."

"Oh. So The Apple Martini thing was a one-time shot." And why did he say that? It sounded like he was keeping score of the women Grissom went out with. Not that he went out with many.

Grissom merely shrugged.

"It wasn't a date," he said. "She only had some information she wanted to share with me."

Greg nodded thoughtfully. He kind of knew that already, but it was nice to get a confirmation. He'd never admit this, but Grissom's love life had been in his mind lately. It all started with a conversation they'd had a few weeks before; they were discussing attraction at the time, and Grissom had admitted to being turned on by someone who didn't judge him.

And that word, that _'someone'_ had been nagging at Greg ever since. Grissom didn't say, 'a woman' who didn't judge him, he said, 'someone.'

Did that mean what he thought it meant? That Grissom could be attracted to a guy, just as long as he didn't judge him?

The question kept popping in his head at all times, and it popped again now, but he knew better than to voice it. Instead, he munched on popcorn. In fact, he was the only one eating now.

Greg didn't feel any qualms about gorging on the popcorn –he'd simply buy Grissom another bag- but he did find it amusing that Grissom kept a hold on the bag. By now, it should have made more sense for him to hand the bag to Greg, or at least to pour the contents in the younger man's hands. Instead, he held on to the bag, making it more and more difficult for Greg to get at the popcorn.

Greg took it as a challenge. He burrowed into the bag, determined to get the last kernel; as he did, his fingers brushed against Grissom's through the thin paper bag.

"Do you think sex helps?" he asked before he could check himself. "I mean, as an outlet."

"I suppose it works for some," Grissom said noncommittally.

Grissom's evasiveness only piqued Greg's interest.

"What about you?" he prompted, "I mean, I'm not talking about paying someone, here. I'm talking about calling a friend, and, you know, have some casual fun together."

Grissom shook his head. "I don't believe in casual encounters, Greg."

"Really?" Greg's eyes widened. He looked at Grissom with interest, "Are you saying you've never tasted the joys of a one-night stand?"

Grissom smiled faintly but didn't reply.

"Come on," Greg said, incredulously, "You've never been tempted? I mean, it's just for one night. No compromise, no messes -"

"If there isn't going to be any compromise, then why bother?"

"Well, for the sheer pleasure of someone's company," Greg said as if it were obvious. "You'd never even consider it?"

Grissom merely shook his head.

"Wow," Greg said, truly amazed. "So, what you mean is, you'll only get involved with someone if there's a long-term commitment in the offing." He said the words slowly, as if they were in a foreign language.

Grissom didn't contradict him.

"Wow," Greg said again. He shook his head. "Don't you think you're asking too much?"

Gil considered this for a moment. "I suppose," he admitted. "But I'd be willing to give back just as much."

Greg frowned. So this is what Grissom wanted: Commitment. Complete devotion. One person to be with forever –

Wow. No wonder the man lived alone.

And yet… It was an interesting concept…One he'd like to study further.

Meanwhile, he finished the popcorn.

"I'll get more," he said, rising from his seat without waiting for an answer. He started to walk away, then turned, "What about pretzels? Do you like those?"

"Sure," Grissom said, "With no -"

"No butter," Greg finished. "Got it. And a diet soda -"

"Actually, I prefer regular soda."

"Got it," Greg said firmly. "Popcorn –no butter; soda -" and muttering to himself the list of things to buy, Greg determinedly walked into the crowd.

Grissom followed Greg with his eyes until he lost sight of him.

'Nice guy,' Gil thought, smiling to himself. 'Easy to talk to -'

Extremely easy, in fact; which came as a surprise, for Greg was a voluble guy, the kind who could easily monopolize a conversation. But he was a good listener too, and he seemed genuinely interested in what people had to say. You just couldn't help sharing things with Greg -even things you'd kept to yourself, for, well, ever, as Grissom had recently discovered.

He didn't stop to wonder why he told Greg the things he did; he merely noted the fact. Working together in the field had given them the chance to talk about personal stuff, and that was ok with Grissom; he knew Greg would keep their conversations private, and that was what really mattered. He trusted Greg… And this last thought made him frown. He trusted his colleagues –he trusted them with his life- yet till now, he'd never trusted anyone with his most inner thoughts.

But there was more than mere talking here. There was also the cheap thrill he felt when Greg dipped his hand into the bag of popcorn and their fingers touched. He'd hold on to the bag on purpose, making it more and more difficult for Greg to get at the popcorn. Greg had made a game out of it, his fingers burrowing deeper and deeper into the bag, his hand moving inside Grissom's...

Grissom was musing on this when Greg came back, arms laden with food, and what looked like a pipe in his mouth. On a closer look, it turned out to be a candy apple, stick firmly held in Greg's teeth.

Grissom rose to help. With hands free at last, Greg took the wood stick out of his mouth and started moving his jaw as if to restore circulation.

Gil shook his head.

"Why didn't you just put the apple with the other stuff?"

"Are you kidding me? The popcorn would have gotten all over it. That's cross-contamination!"

Gil rolled his eyes.

They sat, and Greg handed Gil a huge pretzel.

"Here. No butter, no dip, no nothing. No flavor, either," he added, almost to himself.

"Thanks," Gil smiled at the last comment.

"Oh, and I got you some popcorn," Greg said, and he picked a bag from among the others. "No butter."

Grissom reached for the bag, but Greg didn't relinquish it. He simply held the bag so Gil could take some popcorn from it.

Gil raised his gaze. Greg was staring right back at him, waiting for him to make a move.

Grissom picked a few kernels popcorn. Then some more. He knew that at some point, he would have to burrow deep into the bag to get at the popcorn, his hand practically imprisoned in Greg's.

He ate faster.

* * *

TBC


	4. A little surprise, part one

Big Muddle

A little surprise: part one

Gil and Greg's awareness for each other will reach a new level...

Spoiler: A little murder

* * *

Greg stepped into the lobby of the Aladin's Cave Hotel and glanced around. 'Nice place,' he said, openly gawking. It's not like this was the first time he came to a place like this, but lately it seemed that the only time he entered a luxury place was to investigate a crime, and when you were on a case, beauty always took a second place to hard evidence.

But tonight he could take the time to notice everything –from the fine details, to the overall lavishness of the place. Tonight, he wasn't there as a CSI; he was there as a guest of New York's St. Martin High-School.

He was there for his high school reunion.

He'd already taken a look at the banquet hall the party was going to be held in. Everything was set: tables were laden with food and drink, the members of the music band were tuning their instruments, and the huge welcoming banner was set up high. All that was missing were his former classmates, and it wasn't hard to imagine where they all were: in the casino.

Torn between looking for them and waiting in an empty room, Greg had decided to play tourist.

'Impressive,' he thought as he glanced at the high ceilings and mirrored walls of the hall. There were dozens of works of art for him to admire too, but with so many mirrors it was inevitable that his own reflection would end up catching his eye. Eventually, he stopped and took a hard look at himself.

He changed since the last time his classmates saw him. He was taller for one thing, and the acne had cleared. As he checked on his fashionably messy hairdo, the expensive Armani suit, and the high-quality shoes, he decided he looked ok.

"Yeah," he said, nodding at his own reflection in approval. Then why did he still feel insecure? Well, for one thing, he was about to face the people who'd made his teenage years miserable, and the thought daunted him.

He was musing on this, when he noticed a familiar shape moving in the background. It was only a reflection, but Greg thought he knew who it was -he'd recognize that stride anywhere. He turned around to look, but as he did, the certainty faded. The guy certainly looked like Gil Grissom, but there was something different about him; something Greg couldn't quite pinpoint…

Intrigued, Greg decided to follow the man. Tourists swarming the lobby of the hotel made it difficult for him, but finally, Greg found his man. He was standing in front of an elevator.

It was Grissom. He just looked… Well, he looked different, and it was all because of the clothes he was wearing. Gone were the loose-fitting polo shirts and the baggy jackets, and the well-worn dark pants he favored. Today, Gil Grissom was wearing a suit –but not just any suit; this one was impeccably cut, and obviously expensive.

"Whoa," Greg whispered as he openly ogled. Grissom looked great. Better than great. True, suits hid Grissom's best asset, (his ass), but that didn't really matter because, as Greg was just discovering, there was more to Grissom than just a great backside.

So, what was Gil Grissom doing there, dressed to kill, so to speak?

Intrigued, Greg approached Grissom from behind, but instead of greeting him openly, he tapped the older man's right shoulder, and then sneaked to his left side.

Predictably, Grissom turned to his right first, then to his left, only to be met with Greg's face, only a few inches away. Grissom's eyes opened wide.

Instinctively, he took a step back.

"Greg?"

"That's me," Greg smiled, pleased with himself. It wasn't every day that he managed to ambush his boss like this. "What are you doing here?"

Grissom had recovered.

"I could ask you the same question," he said calmly.

"High School reunion," Greg said promptly, "My old classmates decided to hold it in the city of sin, so here I am." He glanced over his shoulder. "The banquet hall's still empty, though." He looked back at Grissom. "What about you? What are you here for?"

Grissom didn't share Greg's knack for volubility. He merely muttered something about a convention, and that was all he said.

The elevator door opened then, and Greg quickly stepped inside.

Grissom didn't.

"Where are you going?" he frowned.

"Upstairs," Greg said good-naturedly. "I thought I'd take a look at the city. There's an observatory upstairs, didn't you know that?" The doors were about to close, and Greg immediately shot out his hand to hold them open. "Aren't you coming?"

Grissom reluctantly stepped in.

"Number?" Greg asked cordially, his index finger poised over the control panel.

"Nineteen," Grissom muttered.

Greg punched the button, and then took his place beside Grissom.

"So," he said. "A convention, huh?"

Grissom nodded briefly but didn't say anything. He didn't even look in Greg's direction. He wasn't in the mood for chit chat, and Greg quickly got the message. Instead of talking, he decided to take a look around. More mirrors met his gaze, and that posed a problem; with only two people in the elevator, it was hard not to be aware of Grissom, especially since he got to see him from every conceivable angle. It was too much for Greg.

"Nice suit," he blurted out. He looked up at the mirror in front of them just in time to see Grissom staring back at him.

Greg smiled.

"We clean up nice, don't we?"

Grissom briefly eyed Greg up and down, but didn't comment.

The silence piqued Greg. It wasn't like he was fishing around for a compliment but couldn't Grissom be polite and say something at least? And why should they keep silence, anyway? They were in a freaking elevator, not in court. People talked in elevators.

"So," he said, "What's the convention about? No, wait," he added abruptly, "Don't tell me: Natty Entomologists of the world." He pointedly looked up and down and Grissom, then added, "Or 'Men in Blue: the best tailors in Las Vegas.'"

Grissom smiled reluctantly, and Greg took that as a good sign. He was about to add something when, suddenly, the elevator doors opened, and a fairly large group of people got in, pushing him and Grissom into a corner. They stood shoulder to shoulder, the backs of their hands touching, until Grissom casually moved his hand away.

"So, Grissom," Greg said, his voice a whisper now. "That must be one hell of a convention you're going to. What's it called, anyway? 'Hot Forensics and the men who practice them?' " Grissom snorted, and this encouraged Greg to add, "I mean, you're really dressed to impress, here. It almost looks like -" and suddenly, he stopped.

Noticing the silence, Grissom looked sideways.

"What?" he frowned.

"Nothing," Greg muttered. It had just occurred to him that Grissom was probably meeting someone there. Someone he wanted to impress. The thought was enough to wipe the teasing smile off his face, but he didn't know why. After all, why shouldn't Grissom have a life like everybody else?

"Nothing?" Grissom repeated skeptically.

"Nothing," Greg said more firmly. "I was just wondering why you can't tell me the name of the convention. Is this thing top-secret, or something?"

Grissom only rolled his eyes. It was a playful gesture, though, and Greg's smile returned.

"So," Greg pressed, "Are you gonna tell me?"

"No."

Greg frowned, then shrugged.

"Fine," he muttered. "Don't tell me. All I have to do is call management and ask -"

"Why don't you do that, then."

"-and I can sneak in too. Wouldn't be the first time I did."

"Not this time," Gil said firmly. "Only those with an invitation are allowed to get in." He pointedly patted his breast pocket.

"Oh, come on. Can't you even let me have a look, or something?"

Grissom turned and looked at him in the eye at last. He seemed to be studying Greg, and the young man had the impression that Grissom was gauging the consequences of letting Greg 'have a look or something.'

"Fine," Grissom said at last. "You can come in with me." And the look on his face said, 'you're asking for it.'

--

Greg could barely contain his curiosity. He had a hard time waiting for Grissom to get the go-ahead from the receptionist, a small woman standing behind a desk. She checked Grissom's name from a list.

"Welcome, Dr. Grissom," she said, smiling warmly, her voice unusually high, like a child's. "Ann's waiting for you."

Greg looked up sharply at Grissom, who merely smiled at the woman. But as they walked inside, the look on Grissom's face changed. He looked happy, hopeful. His smile widened when he looked up at the banner hanging by the entrance of the convention room.

'Little People, Big Dreams.'

They were at a convention for little people.

Greg nodded knowingly. Years ago, Nick had told him that Grissom had a subscription for a Little People's newsletter; at the time, it seemed like just another quirk of Grissom's, but it was obvious that his interest on the subject went beyond mere quirkiness. Still... Could it be that Grissom had a girlfriend, here?

Greg followed Grissom into the convention room. The meeting hadn't started yet, so there was still a playful, relaxed atmosphere in the room. The sitting arrangement had been designed for group discussions. Most of the seats were already occupied, but there were still people milling about.

Suddenly, a tiny woman detached herself from a group of people and waved at them.

Grissom's smile widened. He went to the woman's encounter, reaching out as if he couldn't wait to hold her in his arms.

"Gilbert," she said warmly, and she extended a hand to him.

If Grissom's intention was to wrap his arms around this woman, her gesture put a halt to that. Seamlessly, Grissom complied; he held her hand between his, and only bent to kiss her when she turned up her cheek to him.

"It's so good to see you, Gilbert," she said, and this time Greg noticed she had a little difficulty pronouncing some of the words.

She was looking tenderly at Grissom when she noticed Greg, standing a few steps behind. She seemed surprised. "Oh," she said, "You brought a friend -"

"A colleague," Gil amended quickly, but the look she gave him said she didn't believe that for a minute. She smiled widely at Greg, who took this as an invitation to approach them. "This is Greg Sanders," Grissom said and, to Greg's surprise, he used sign language too. "Greg?" he added, "This is Ann Stansfield. My mother."

---------

TBC


	5. A little surprise, part two

Big Muddle

'A little surprise' part two

* * *

"My mother."

Years later, Greg would cringe when he remembered his immediate reaction to those words. Prepped to expect anything at his high school reunion, Greg thought Grissom was only joking. 'Ha, ha, good one,' he almost blurted out, just before he realized this was his _boss _talking, not an ex-classmate.

It was his training as a CSI that saved him; taught to show restraint when facing the unexpected, Greg mumbled a greeting and then shook the hand that Grissom's mom was offering him, her stubby fingers feeling impossible small in his hand.

Her grip was anything but weak, though. She was elderly but there was a lot of character behind that handshake.

She smiled.

"Hello, Greg," she said, the name coming out of her mouth as 'Gegg'.

Greg smiled back but inside he was sweating bullets. Grissom's mom was looking attentively at him, obviously gauging his reaction; while Grissom –well, Greg didn't have to look at Grissom to know he was studying him, too.

Finally, she gently withdrew her hand.

"Do you mind if I take Gil away for a moment? There are some friends I'd like him to meet." And she smiled at Grissom, who willingly went along with her.

Left alone, Greg watched them for a moment, first focusing on her, then on him, then back at her. His first thought –that maybe she was Grissom's adoptive mother- vanished the moment he'd looked into her face. She had Grissom's eyes –that is, he had _her_eyes. Her mouth, too. She was Grissom's mother, only she was no longer a Grissom because –well, maybe because she married again. Or maybe she'd simply decided to keep her own name. Or maybe -

He was freaking out, Greg suddenly realized. Now, he understood why Grissom didn't want him there. He knew Greg would be surprised –

Ha! Surprised was an understatement. He'd followed Grissom into that room thinking he'd be meeting, well, if not a girlfriend, then at least someone Grissom might be attracted to. Instead, he'd met his mom.

Just not any mom.

Not that it was that big a deal; with his knowledge of Endocrinology still fresh in his memory, Greg knew all about the probabilities of something like this happening. It was the fact that this was _Grissom_ that was so, well, shocking. Suddenly, he knew too much about the boss.

'I need a drink,' Greg thought, and as if in answer to a prayer, a waiter carrying a tray with champagne flutes passed him by. Greg motioned at him, but the waiter, who was little too, merely gave him a look of contempt.

"We don't want your kind here," he sneered. "Go gawk somewhere else." Then, pointedly ignoring Greg's extended hand, he took the champagne to one of the tables.

Greg glanced around, suddenly conscious of being the only tall person in the room –well, apart from Grissom; but Grissom looked right at home at the moment, talking animatedly to his mother's friends. The chair he was sitting on was a tad too small for him but it didn't seem to bother him; he looked like was having the time of his life. From the way he related to the people in the room, it was clear that for him, this was more than a convention; it was a family reunion.

Looking at them, Greg felt a bit envious. Why couldn't his ex-classmates be like these guys? Then maybe they'd be able to talk and be friends, for a change.

As it was, he truly didn't know what awaited him in the banquet hall downstairs.

'Time to find out,' Greg sighed.

-------

A couple of hours later, Greg had had enough. He had nothing in common with his so-called friends from high school -he never had. He'd been too young, back then; a mere child among teens, a genius among slackers. A mascot; someone to torment.

Well, he wasn't a kid anymore, so tormenting him was out of the question, but that didn't mean they accepted him either. Greg was still not one of them.

Greg left the party and eventually wandered into the elevator area again. He'd go up to the observatory and take a look at the city like he'd originally planned; take a look at the stars, like Grissom did when he was stressed out.

Thinking of Grissom reminded him of what he'd found out earlier. Who would have thought his mother was –

Greg shook his head. No wonder Grissom kept his private life private. He'd mentioned his mom a couple of times, or so Greg had heard, but he'd never said anything about her being deaf or little. He didn't want anybody to know. Or maybe he didn't mention because it wasn't a big deal for him, or -

"Who cares?" Greg muttered, and the other people in the elevator glanced at him. He shrugged. Who cares, indeed.

---

'Well, well', Greg thought as he entered the observatory. His school reunion had been a disaster but holding it at the hotel had its advantages. Not only did it give him free access to the observatory, it also entitled him to three glasses of Dom Perignon, free or charge.

Taking his first glass, Greg looked around for a balcony that wasn't too crowded. Tourists swarmed the ones with better views, but there were a couple that were practically empty and Greg found one that suited him.

All balconies were protected by a bubble-like window, the clear glass making it look like you were really out in the open. From where he stood, Greg had a great view of the city. Vegas looked just like a handful of jewels displayed on black velvet.

He smiled at his analogy. A jewel -yeah, right. As a CSI he knew just how tarnished that jewel really was. Still, looking from above, he could pretend not to know any of that, and act like just another tourist enchanted by the view.

A faint clicking sound in the near vicinity caught his attention. There was someone else there, standing on the opposite end of the balcony. A man. In the semi darkness, Greg could see a glass of champagne being raised, then placed back on the railing.

Greg didn't particularly want to strike a conversation, but he couldn't help glancing again, just in case it was someone, well, interesting. One of the perks of having the school reunion in a hotel was the possibility of getting a nice room at a moderate rate, and he still hadn't given up on getting lucky yet.

Greg casually walked along the railing, watching the stranger all along, hoping to get a glimpse of his face.

When he finally did, he stared in disbelief. It was Grissom. He was leaning against the railing, looking out -not at the city but at the stars above.

"Grissom?"

The older man turned around abruptly. He was clearly surprised to see Greg there; uncomfortable, too, if Greg read the signs correctly. But the man was too disciplined to let his true feelings show for long; he nodded casually at Greg, just as if he'd been waiting to see him there all along.

"Hey, Greg." He didn't speak till Greg was standing next to him. "How's your reunion going on?"

"Great!" Greg said a little too enthusiastically. "I just came up here to take a breather, you know. Pace myself." He was careful not to look at Grissom in the eye as he spoke. He wouldn't have lied so easy otherwise. "What about the convention? Is it over already?"

"Not yet."

Greg leant on the railing and looked down at the distant streets below.

"Great view isn't it?" he said. He got no response from Grissom –not surprisingly; the man was probably pissed off at Greg for intruding like this.

Others would have taken the silence as a hint and leave, but not Greg. He really needed a friend tonight. True, Grissom was not exactly a friend, but he wasn't just a coworker either. Lately, it felt like there was a bond between them than went beyond any conventional relationship. Greg didn't know exactly what it was, and he didn't know if Grissom felt the same, (and he wasn't about to ask) but the point was, he'd rather be with Grissom than alone.

Minutes passed. They stood side by side in companionable silence, the quiet broken only by the sounds of Greg's glass being lifted and put back on the railing.

Grissom was probably enjoying the quiet, but Greg was not. He needed to talk about tonight; he needed to tell someone about his reunion. It was pathetic, he knew that; he just couldn't hold back.

Maybe he simply couldn't lie to Grissom and rest easy?

"It was a disaster," he blurted out.

Grissom glanced questioningly at him.

"The reunion," Greg said. "It didn't work out."

"What happened?"

"Oh, you know," Greg shrugged. "Stuff." He didn't want to sound like a sore loser by making a list of grievances, but little by little, he started talking.

"I guess I expected too much from this reunion," he muttered. "I just thought it would be so cool, you know, to introduce myself as a Crime Scene Investigator. But to them I'm still the skinny kid with the acne and the awkward questions. And the worst part is that after a while I started feeling like I was still that kid. I could almost feel the zits popping out," he added, trying to add humor to his words. "I even started stuttering around some of my old teachers -"

"You used to stutter?"

Greg realized he'd revealed too much. He looked sharply at Grissom, but instead of the scorn he was half-expecting to see, he noticed a faint smile of commiseration on Grissom's lips. It seemed he knew exactly what Greg had been going through.

Greg looked curiously at him.

"Did you ever go to your high school reunions?"

Grissom shook his head. "I never did."

"Never?"

"I went to too many schools, Greg. We moved constantly, so -" He let the word trail off. "I doubt anyone remembers me."

"Lucky you," Greg muttered. He kept his gaze on Grissom, who in turn raised his eyes to the sky again.

After a moment, so did Greg. Little by little, he felt his tension melt away. Grissom was right; looking up at the stars above made you see things in perspective.

"It's stupid, right?" Greg said, "Needing my classmates' approval, I mean."

Grissom was noncommittal. "It's natural for people to need validation from their peers now and then. Familiar environments usually lead us to fall back into patterns learned from childhood -"

Greg smiled. 'Leave it to Grissom to turn everything into a lecture,' he thought fondly. Come to think of it, his boss always had an explanation for everything. And no matter what, he always tried to make you feel better about yourself.

This realization led to another.

"You know," Greg said slowly, "I've just realized something. I never really fit in anywhere till I came to Vegas; not in high school, not in college… I think the lab is the first place I've ever felt comfortable being myself. And it's because of you." Then he chuckled self-consciously. "I can't believe I'm telling you all this." He looked appraisingly at his boss. "Talking to you is really easy, Grissom. I bet the guys come to you all the time, and tell you their most personal secrets -"

"The guys?"

"The guys from the lab, I mean. And the girls."

Grissom frowned over this.

"Not really," he said slowly. "They talk to me about their jobs, mostly. They keep their secrets to themselves –as it should be," he added pointedly. He glanced at Greg. "Telling someone a secret is giving them power over you, Greg."

Greg considered this for a moment.

"Well, I don't mind telling you about tonight. You're the only one in the world who's bound to listen without telling me I'm a moron."

"You're not a moron," Grissom said kindly. "You just wanted to make peace with your classmates." He held Greg's gaze for a moment, then he looked away, this time at the city below. He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper, as if he were talking to himself. "I suppose that, at one point or another, we've all wished we could rectify a memory; rewrite history, so to speak."

Greg kept his gaze on Grissom; as always, the older man hadn't said much but the little he said seemed to be filled with hidden meaning. Was 'rewriting history' what he had in mind when he came to his mother's convention? That question led to another –and another.

And Grissom knew. He could tell, by the way Greg kept glancing at him, that the young man had some questions to ask. Well, of course he did. Everybody had questions after they met his mother –why should Greg be any different?

Come to think of it, of all the people in the world he could have met here, why did it have to be Greg? Grissom rarely saw the people he worked with over the weekend -and with good reason: his time off was sacred; he didn't want to meet anybody or talk to anybody -least of all Greg Sanders.

He talked too much when he was around Greg.

This had never been a problem till Greg started his training as a CSI. Now, whenever their conversations took a turn to personal matters, (and they usually did) Gil found himself voicing thoughts he'd always kept to himself.

And that wasn't all; lately, it seemed that all he and Greg had to do was look into each other's eyes to know what the other was thinking -a useful little trick when they were interrogating a suspect, but a damn uncomfortable one when there was no third party to take the blunt of Greg's curiosity. Sometimes it was as if his thoughts were on display for the young man to see –not a comforting thought, especially tonight.

Beside him, Greg cleared his throat.

"Your mom's nice," he said tentatively. He got no response from Grissom, except a faint smile that seemed to say, 'I knew he would say that.'

Greg hesitated. "I'm, hum, sorry. About the way I reacted, I mean." He knew he'd frozen for a few seconds; not too long –just enough for a trained observer like Grissom to know how stunned he was. "You should have told me," he added, reproachfully.

Grissom glanced at him.

"If I'd told you, my mother would have known," he said good-naturedly. "She always knows when people have been warned." He smiled faintly. "Relax. You did well." He looked away again.

Greg could tell Grissom didn't want to talk, but he couldn't leave it at that. There was something about Grissom, tonight. He looked content enough but shouldn't he be downstairs, at the convention? Just a couple of hours ago he looked like he was on top of the world, and now -

"Can I ask you a question?"

Grissom smiled –that same smile; the one that said he knew what was coming.

He didn't even have to wait for the question.

He looked at Greg. "My father was little, too."

Greg looked up sharply.

"That's not what I was going to ask," he muttered, a bit guiltily because the question had in fact, crossed his mind.

"Ok," Grissom said good-naturedly. "What about… 'How can two dwarves give birth to a normal-sized person?'"

"That's not either," Greg said levelly, "I know all about the probabilities. I used to be your DNA expert, remember?"

Grissom nodded, accepting the rebuke.

"You're right," he said humbly.

"And I think the term is 'little people,' not dwarf," Greg muttered testily.

Grissom smiled.

"You're right, again. I'm sorry," he added. "I guess I forgot. Or maybe I was just -" he let the word trail off. He shook his head as if he were dismissing the idea.

"What?"

Grissom was silent for a moment.

"I guess I was rehashing a previous conversation," he said softly, almost to himself. "One of a hundred." He glanced at Greg. "People tend to ask the same questions. And they're not always as politically correct as you." He paused at what he'd just said, and then smiled faintly. "This is what reunions do, don't they? Rake up the memories."

Greg looked thoughtfully at Grissom.

"Was it difficult? Growing up, I mean."

Grissom smiled faintly but didn't answer. He looked away.

"I mean, you're the least prejudiced person I know," Greg said quickly. "But sometimes it's hard for a kid –I guess," he amended. After all, he didn't know what Grissom's childhood had been like. He could only guess. "I mean, back then there wasn't a TV show like Little Big World, right? People probably didn't know how to, well -" he couldn't finish.

Grissom took pity on him.

"It was difficult," he admitted. "Sometimes." He was about to add something, but didn't. His lips moved once again, but it was only on the third try that he finally admitted, "I was ashamed."

Greg nodded. He understood completely.

Grissom, who rarely felt the need to justify his actions, did so this time. "I just didn't want to be different."

"I understand," Greg said kindly. "You just wanted to be like the other kids."

Grissom scoffed softly. He shook his head.

"I didn't want to be like the other kids," he said. "I wanted to be little."

Greg frowned. "Little?"

"Or deaf," Gil said, smiling a little at the memory. "I just wanted to be like my parents, so people would stop asking me questions." He looked at Greg, "People always assumed I was adopted," he explained. "My neighbors, my classmates, my classmates' parents...

"Even my parents' friends didn't believe I was my parents' child," he added, and this time he showed real feeling: indignation. Almost immediately, however, he shrugged it off. "It shouldn't have bothered me, but it did."

"Hey, I'd be pissed off, too," Greg said loyally. "So, what about your friends? Did they give you a hard time?"

Grissom considered this for a moment.

"They reacted in different ways," he said thoughtfully. "Some thought it was cool that one day I'd big enough to beat my parents -"

"Oh, shit," Greg muttered.

"Others thought it was cool because –and I quote- 'it was like having my own circus at home.'"

"Shit."

Grissom was frowning. "I think the worst were the ones who acted as if we were carrying a contagious disease. So," he shrugged, "In time, I just stopped bringing friends home."

'And girls,' Greg thought. He could well imagine what a girl would think upon meeting Grissom's parents: not good DNA material. Was that why Grissom never got married, or were there other reasons?

He couldn't very well ask and, looking at Grissom, it was obvious that the older man wasn't going to say more. He was leaning on the railing now, examining the structure as if he were there to determine its safety.

Idly, Greg reached for his glass of champagne, only to find it empty. He glanced speculatively at the door behind him; he was entitled to two more glasses but he had the feeling that if he left the balcony, Grissom wouldn't be there when he came back. He couldn't risk it.

The truth was, he felt sorry for Grissom. He'd never fit at school or anywhere else for that matter, but at least his family had accepted him unconditionally. True; having an overprotective mom had sucked at times, but after seeing the opposite in Grissom's mother, he could tell he'd been lucky.

He had no reason to believe she didn't love Grissom but, come on; couldn't she at least accept a hug from him? Instead, she'd treated him like a stranger. She'd gingerly let both men hold her hand, her eyes fixed upon them, gauging their reactions. Her searching eyes –her only weapon. There was tenderness in them as they gazed upon Grissom, but still, she'd kept her distance. Afterwards, she didn't take his hand to guide him to her friends; she merely guided him towards them.

As for the rest of the night, well, Greg could easily picture it: Grissom, making every effort to fit in -trying just as hard as he did many years ago; trying to _'rewrite the past'_- only to find himself inevitably edged out. Or maybe he simply realized he didn't belong there.

Greg glanced sideways at Grissom. The older man seemed at peace. Whatever hopes he had for tonight, it looked like he was content –or resigned- with the results. But Greg wished it had been different. He wished there was something he could say or do.

He took a deep breath.

"You know," he said, "We're lucky, you and I."

Grissom looked up. "What's that?"

"We're lucky," Greg said, "I mean, think about it: we didn't fit anywhere for a long time, right? I know _I _didn't. And then we came to Las Vegas -" he let the word trail off.

Grissom held his gaze for a moment, then dropped it.

Suddenly, Greg remembered the look Grissom gave him early on, when they were still in the elevator: 'You asked for it,' it said. A warning. But there was something else there; a knowing smile. 'You'll be sorry you stuck around,' it said. But Greg wasn't sorry; well, not really. He wasn't sorry he stuck around. He wasn't like Grissom's old friends; he wasn't about to drop their friendship just because he knew the truth now.

"You fit with _us_, Grissom." He reached for Grissom's left hand, the one resting on the railing. And, before he could think of the consequences, he added, "You fit in here," as his fingers encircled Grissom's hand.

* * *

THE END...Soon, a sequel. And the sequel will be slash. ha!


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